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SONGS OF LIBERTY AND OTHER POEMS 



3Q^ tbe same Butbor 


AND 


UNIFORM 


WITH 


THE PRESENT VOLUME! 


"THE 


WINTER 


HOUR 


AND 


OTHER 


poems" 



SONGS OF LIBERTY 
AND OTHER POEMS 

BY ^ 

ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON 



INCLUDING PARAPHRASES FROM THE SERVIAN 
AFTER TRANSLATIONS BY NIKOLA TESLA, WITH A 
PREFATORY NOTE BY HIM ON SERVIAN POETRY 







NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 
1897 




TWOC0F*lt5 RECEIVED 






Copyright, 1897, by 
Robert Underwood Johnson 



/^-ay. 



7"/ 



THE DE VINNE PRESS. 






^" 



/ 



TO MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Apostrophe to Greece. (Inscribed to the Greek people 

on the Seventy-fifth Anniversary of their Independence.) i 

Song OF THE Modern Greeks . . . . . ii 

To the Housatonic at Stockbridge ... 13 

Farewell to Italy 16 

A Chopin Fantasy 20 

In Tesla's Laboratory 24 

The Wlstful Days 25 

" Love Once was like an April Dawn " ... 26 

An Irish Love-Song 27 

" Oh, Waste no Tears " 29 

Her Smile 31 

Song for the Guitar 32 

Ursula 33 

A Dark Day 34 

The Surprised Avowal 35 

The Blossom of the Soul 37 

"I Journeyed South to meet the Spring" . . 38 



viii CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Paraphrases from the Servian of Zmai Iovan Iovan- 

OVICH, AFTER LITERAL TRANSLATIONS BY NIKOLATeSLA: 

Introductory Note on Zmai by Mr. Tesla . 43 

The Three Giaours 49 

Luka Filipov 54 

A Mother of Bosnia 58 

The Monster 62 

Two Dreams 65 

Mysterious Love 67 

The Coming of Song 69 

Curses 71 

A Fairy from the Sun-shower .... 72 
" Why," you ask, " Has not the Servian Per- 
ished?" 73 

" I Begged a Kiss of a Little Maid " . . . 74 

Why the Army became Quiet .... 75 

The Gipsy Praises hjs Horse 76 

The Voice of Webster 85 

Hands across Sea 99 



SONGS OF LIBERTY AND OTHER POEMS 



JF " 




APOSTROPHE TO GREECE* 

From the Parthenon 

(inscribed to the greek people on the seventy- 
fifth ANNIVERSARY OF THEIR INDEPENDENCE) 



O LAND of sage and stoic — 
Of human deeds heroic, 

Of heroes' deeds divine! 
What braggart of the nations 
Shall scorn thy proud narrations — 
Thou who hast named the stars from thy Olympian line ! 

* This ode, begun on the steps of the Parthenon in 1886, was 
published in the New York " Independent " of April, 1896, and, in 
part, in modern Greek in the " Hellas," a record of the Olympic 
Games of that year. 

I 



2 APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 

In spite of Moslem crime 
Thou livest! Hungry Time 

Can only dead devour. 
Though asphodel hath strewed 
This marble solitude, 
The silence thrills with life, the ruins rise in power. 

Yon sea's imperial vastness 

Was once thy friend and fastness ; 

By many a curving strand, 
'Twixt purple capes, on edges 
Of seaward-looking ledges, 
Rose the white cities sown by thy adventurous hand. 

Nor couldst thou think of these 
As lonely colonies 

Wherewith rich Corinth lined 
The West, while Dorian sails 
Outrode ^gean gales ; 
Nay, suburbs were they all, molds of Athenian mind. 

Then could thy galleys pass 
From Tyre to Acragas, 

By Grecian islands gray 
That dreamed of Athens' brow. 
And gaily to the prow 
Harnessed the pawing winds to seek some Attic bay. 



APOSTROPHE TO GREECE ■ 

Here to Athene's feast, 

From West, from North, from East — 

Through Jason's fabled strait 
Or round Malea's rock — 
The homesick sails would flock, 
Oft with an Odyssey of peril to relate. 

And what exultant stir 
When the swart islander, 

Bound for the festal week. 
First saw Colonna's crest 
Give back the glowing West 
Far past ^gina's shore and her prophetic peak! 

I hear his cheery cries 
Though Time between us Hes 

More wide than sea and land. 
The gladness that he brings 
Thrills in the song he sings, 
Beaching his welcome craft on Phaleron's level strand. 

O harbor of dehght! 

Strike the torn sail — to-night 

On Attic soil again! 
When joy is free to slaves 
What though the swarming waves 
Follow each other down Hke the generations of men! 



4 APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 

Now, for a time, to war 
And private hate a bar 
Of sacred armistice ; 
Even in the under-world 
Shall the rough winds be furled 
That tell of wrangling shades that crowd the courts of Dis. 

'T is Peace shall bring the green 
For Merit's brow. What scene, 

O Athens, shall be thine! 
Till from Parnassus' height 
Phoebus' reluctant light 
Lingers along Hymettus' fair and lofty line. 

With dance and song and game 
And oratory's flame 

Shall Hellas beat and swell, 
Till, ohve-crowned, in pride 
The envied victors ride, 
Fellows to those whose fame the prancing marbles tell. 

O antique time and style, 
Return to us awhile 

Bright as thy happy skies ! 
Silent the sounds that mar : 
Like music heard afar 
The harmony endures while all the discord dies. 



APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 5 

Not yet the cloister's shade 
Fell on a world afraid, 

Morbid, morose — the alloy 
Found greater than the gold 
Of life. Like Nature old 
Thou still didst sing and show the sanity of joy. 

That secret to this day 
Hath its enduring sway 

O'er all thy childlike kind. 
Oh, teach this anxious age 
Through thy serener page 
How by the happy heart to keep the unclouded mind. 

II 
• But thou wert Freedom's too 

As well as Joy's, and drew 

From every mountain breast 
An air that could endure 
No foreign foe — so pure 
That Lycabettus neighbors the Corinthian crest. 

Nor was thy love of life 
For thee alone. Thy strife 
Was for the race, no less. 
Thee, to whom wrong is done 
While wrong confronts the sun, 
The oppressor cannot crush, nor teach thee to oppress. 



6 APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 

By thee for lands benighted 
Was Freedom's beacon lighted 
That now enstars the earth. 
Welcome the people's hour! 
Passed is the monarch's power, 
Dread waits not on his death that trembled at his birth. 

As down a craggy steep 
Albanian torrents leap 

Impetuous to the sea — 
Such was thy ancient spirit, 
Still thine. Who that inherit 
Hatred of tyranny inherit not from thee? 

Look to the West and see 
Thy daughter, Italy- 
Fathered by Neptune bold 
On Cumae's sheltered strand 
(Forgot but for the hand 
That saved to Art her sibyl many-named and old) ; 

That temple-sated soil, 
Whose altar-smoke would coil 
To hide the Avernian steep, 
Grows the same harvest now — 
Best increase of the plow, 
Fair Freedom, of thy seed, sown for the world to reap. 



APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 7 

Though regal Rome display 
The triumphs of her day ; 

Though Florence, laurel-hung, 
Tell how she held the van 
In the slow march of man — 
Greek was the path they trod, Greek was the song they sung. 

Look farther west and there 
Behold thy later heir. 

Child of thy Jove-Uke mind — 
Fair France. How has she kept 
The watch while others slept? 
Has Wisdom hastened on while Justice lagged behind? 

Like thee, full well she knows 
Through what maternal throes 

New forms from olden come ; 
Her arts, her temples, speak 
A glory that is Greek, 
And fihally her heart turns to the ancestral home. 

For her no backward look 
Into the bloody book 

Of kings. Thrice-rescued land! 
Her furrowed graves bespeak 
A nobler fate : to seek 
In service of the world again the world's command. 



8 APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 

She in whose skies of peace 
Arise new auguries 

To strengthen, cheer, and guide — 
When nations in a horde 
Draw the unhallowed sword, 
O Memory, walk, a warning specter, at her side! 

Among thy debtor lands, 
See, grateful England stands ; 

Who at thy ranging feet 
Learned how to carry Law 
Into the jungle's maw, 
And tempers unto Man or cold or desert heat. 

All that thou daredst she dares 
Till now thy name she bears — 

Mother of Colonies. 
What if thy glorious Past 
She should restore at last. 
And clothe in new renown the dream of Pericles! 

If she but lean to thee 

Once more thy North shall be 

Uplifted from the dust. 
Mother of noble men. 
Thy friends of sword and pen, 
England, though slow to justice, shall again be just. 



APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 9 

And now from our new land 
Beyond two seas, a hand! 

Our world, for ages dumb, 
Part of thy fable-lore, 
Gathers upon its shore 
Each dying race as soil for one chief race to come. 

But of our beating heart 
Thy pulse how large a part ! 
Our wider sky but bounds 
Another Grecian dawn. 
Lament not what is gone ; 
Pentelicus grieves not, for Fame hath healed his wounds. 

HI 

Then, Hellas! scorn the sneer 
Of kings who will not hear 

Their people's moaning voice, 
More deaf than shore to sea! 
The world hath need of thee — 
The world thou still canst teach to reason and rejoice. 

Yes, need of thee while Art 
Of hfe is but a part — 
Plaything or luxury. 
Greek soil perchance may show 
Where Art's hid stream doth flow — 
To rise, a new Alpheus, near another sea. 



lO APOSTROPHE TO GREECE 

Yes, need of thee Avhile Gold 
Makes timid traitors bold 

To lay republics low ; 
Not ignorant nor poor 
Spread for their feet the lure — 
The kind, the loved, the honored, aim the brutal blow. 

Yes, need of thee while Earth 
Each day shows Heaven a girth 

Of want and misery ; 
Wherein there is not found 
Beyond thy happy bound 
A people brave, sane, temperate, thrifty, chaste, and free. 

Then, though by faction's blunder, 
And boasts, of mimic thunder, 

Again thou be betrayed, 
Vain this, vain every treason ; 
With thee are Hope and Reason, 
Nor Past can be forgot, nor Future long delayed. 

Troy was, but Athens is — 
The World's and Liberty's, 

Nor ever less shall be! 
Though fallen are old fanes 
The vestal fire remains 
Bright with the light serene of immortality. 



SONG OF THE MODERN GREEKS 



SONG OF THE MODERN GREEKS 

Liberty, beloved of Hellas, 
Lend us once again thy sword ; 

Turn thy glorious eyes that tell us 
Thou art still to be adored. 

Hail thee, spirit! hover over 

Salamis and Marathon, 
Till each corse that called thee lover 

Rise with thee to lead us on. 

Slumbered Hellas long in sadness, 
Waiting thee to call her forth ; 

Hushed the very cradle's gladness 
By the tyrant of the North. 

Long she dwelt with buried heroes 
In the fame of other years ; 

But against a horde of Neros 
What availed or pride or tears ? 



12 SOXG OF THE MODERX GREEKS 

Then at last thy summons called us, 
And as one we followed thee, 

Till the rusted chains that thralled us 
Fell, and Greece once more was free. 

Ah, but while our kin are weeping 

Over sea and over land, 
Let us not again be sleeping, 

Wake us with thy warning hand. 

Though the Moslem swarm to slay us, 
Though false friends, within, without - 

Kings or cowards — shall betray us. 
If thou lead us, who shall doubt? 

Greece's blood made many an altar 
For the nations then unborn ; 

Will they with her peril palter — 
Give her gratitude, or scorn? 

Oh, could Earth and Time assemble 

All thy legions. Liberty, 
At their tread the world would tremble 

With the passion to be free. 



TO THE HOUSATONIC AT STOCKBRIDGE 13 



TO THE HOUSATONIC AT STOCKBRIDGE 

Contented river! in thy peaceful realm — 

The cloudy willow and the plumy elm : 

They call thee English, thinking thus to mate 

Their musing streams that, oft with pause sedate, 

Linger through misty meadows for a glance 

At haunted tower or turret of romance. 

Beware their praise who rashly would deny 

To our New World its true tranquillity. 

Our " New World "? Nay, say rather to our Old 

(Let truth and freedom make us doubly bold) ; 

Tell them : A thousand silent years before 

Their beauteous sea-born isle — at every shore 

Dripping like Aphrodite's tresses — rose, 

Here, 'neath her purple veil, deep slept Repose, 

To be awakened but by wail of war. 

From yon soft heights thou com'st ; thy heavenly lore, 

Like our own childhood's, all the workday toil 

Cannot efface, nor long its sweetness soil. 

Thou hast grown human laboring with men 

At wheel and spindle ; sorrow thou dost ken ; 



14 TO THE HOUSATONIC AT STOCKBRIDGE 

Yet dost thou still the unshaken stars behold, 
And, calm for calm, return'st them, as of old. 
Thus, like a gentle nature that grows strong 
In meditation for the strife with wrong. 
Thou show'st the peace that only tumult can ; 
Surely, serener river never ran. 

Thou beautiful! From every dreamy hill 
What eye but wanders with thee at thy will, 
Imagining thy silver course unseen 
Convoyed by two attendant streams of green 
In bending hnes,— hke half-expected swerves 
Of swaying music, or those perfect curves 
We call the robin ; making harmony 
With many a new-found treasure of the eye : 
With meadows, marging softly rounded hills 
Where Nature teemingly the myth fulfils 
Of many-breasted Plenty ; with the blue. 
That to the zenith fades through triple hue. 
Pledge of the constant day ; with clouds of white, 
That haunt horizons with their blooms of hght, 
And when the east with rosy eve is glowing 
Seem like full cheeks of zephyrs gently blowing. 

Contented river! and yet over-shy 

To mask thy beauty from the eager eye ; 



TO THE HO USA TONIC AT STOCKBRIDGE 15 

Hast thou a thought to hide from field and town? 
In some deep current of the sunlit brown 
Art thou disquieted — still uncontent 
With praise of thy Homeric bard who lent 
The world the placidness thou gavest him? 
Thee Bryant loved when life was at its brim ; 
And when the wine was falling, in thy wood 
Of sturdy willows like a Druid stood. 
Oh, for his touch on this o'er-throbbing time. 
His hand upon the hectic brow of Rhyme, 
Cooling its fevered passion to a pace 
To lead, to stir, to reinspire the race! 

Ah ! there 's a restive ripple, and the swift 
Red leaves — September's firstlings — faster drift; 
Betwixt twin aisles of prayer they seem to pass 
(One green, one greenly mirrored in thy glass). 
Wouldst thou away, dear stream? Come, whisper nearf 
I also of much resting have a fear : 
Let me to-morrow thy companion be 
By fall and shallow to the adventurous sea! 



l6 FAREWELL TO ITALY 



FAREWELL TO ITALY 

We lingered at Domo d'Ossola— 
Like a last, reluctant guest — 

Where the gray-green tide of Italy 
Flows up to a snowy crest. 

The world from that Alpine shoulder 

Yearns toward the Lombard plain — 

The hearts that come, with rapture, 
The hearts that go, with pain. 

Afar were the frets of Milan ; 

Below, the enchanted lakes ; 
hxA—was it the mist of the evening. 

Or the mist that the memory makes ? 

We gave to the pale horizon 

The Naples that evening gives ; 

We reckoned where Rome hes buried. 
And we felt where Florence lives. 



FAREWELL TO ITALY IJ 

And as Hope bends low at parting 

For a death-remembered tone, 
We searched the land that Beauty 

And Love have made their own. 

We would take of her hair some ringlet, 
Some keepsake from her breast. 

And catch of her plaintive music 
The strain that is tenderest. 

So we strolled in the yellow gloaming 

(Our speech with musing still) 
Till the noise of the militant village 

Fell faint on Calvary Hill. 

And scarcely our mood was broken 

Of near-impending loss 
To find at the bend of the pathway 

A station of the Cross. 

And up through the green aisle climbing 
(Each shrine like a counted bead), 

We heard from above the swaying 
And mystical chant of the creed. 

Then the dead seemed the only living, 
And the real seemed the wraith, 



1 8 FAREWELL TO ITALY 

And we yielded ourselves to the vision 
We saw with the eye of Faith. 

Then she said, " Let us go no farther : 
'T is fit that we make farewell 

While forest and lake and mountain 
Are under the vesper spell." 

As we rested, the leafy silence 
Broke like a cloud at play, 

And a browned and burdened woman 
Passed, singing, down the way. 

'T was a song of health and labor, — 
Of childlike gladness, blent 

With the patience of the toiler 
That tyrants call content. 

" Nay, this is the word we have waited," 
I said, " that a year and a sea 

From now, in our doom of exile, 
Shall echo of Italy." 

Just then what a burst from the bosquet — 
As a bird might have found its soul ! 

And each by the halt of the heart-throb 
Knew 't was the rossignol. 



FAREWELL TO ITALY 19 

Then we drew to each other nearer 

And drank at the gray wall's verge 

The sad, sweet song of lovers, — 
Their passion and their dirge. 

And the carol of Toil below us 

And the paean of Prayer above 
Were naught to the song of Sorrow. 

For under the sorrow was Love. 

Alas ! for the dear remembrance 

We chose for our amulet : 
The one that is left to keep it — 

Ah! how can he forget ? 



20 A CHOPIN FANTASY 



A CHOPIN FANTASY 

ON REMEMBRANCE OF A PRELUDE 

Come, love, sit here and let us leave awhile 
This custom-laden world for warmer lands 
Where, 'neath the silken net of afternoon, 
Leisure is duty and dread care a dream, 

( Tkr musk begins) 

That cliff 's Minorca, that horizon Spain. 
There in the west, Hke fragrance visible, 
Rises the soft light as the sun goes down 
Till half the sky is palpitant with gold. 
Follow it eastward to the gentle blue. 
With faith and childhood in it, and the peace 
Men agonize and roam for. See that fleet 
That flutters in the breeze from the Camargue 
Like white doves, huddled now, now scattering. 
(They say all native boats are homeward bound 
Against to-morrow's annual festival.) 
What peace there is in looking from this height 



A CHOPIN FANTASY 21 

On palms and olives, and the easy steps 
By which the terrace clambers yonder hill! 
How dark those hollows whence the roads of white 
Ascend in angles to the high-perched town! 
Needless the music of the convent bell : 
'Tis vespers in the heart as in the air. 
This is the hour for love, that, like the breath 
Of yonder orange, sweetest is at eve. 
Here, safe entwined, what could be wished for two 
Hid in an island hidden in the sea ? 
Now let me lay my head upon your lap, 
And place your rose-leaf fingers on my lids, 
.Lest, catching glimpse of your resplendent eyes, 
My ardor should blaspheme the coming stars! 

How fast it darkens ! One must needs be blind 

To know the twilight softness of your voice. 

And Love, — not blind, but with a curtained sight, — 

Like one who dwells with Sorrow, can discern 

The shading of a shadow in a tone. 

There 's something troubles you, my sweet-of-hearts, 

A hesitance in that caressing word ; 

Nothing unhappy — a presentiment 

Such as from far might thrill the under-depths 

Of some still tranquil lake before a storm. 

Be happy, love, not ponder happiness. 



22 A CHOPIN FANTASY 

Unerringly I know your woman's soul, 

Content to have your happiness put off 

Like well-planned feast against to-morrow's need, 

And more enjoyed in planning than in use. 

But oh, we men, God made us — what was that? 

A drop upon your hand? Perhaps a tear 

Lost by an angel who remembers yet 

Some perfect moment of th' imperfect world, 

And goes reluctantly her way to heaven, 

Still envious of our lot? Another drop! 

Why, 't is the rain. Stand here and see that sky — 

Blackness intense as sunhght. What a chasm 

Of .silver where that lightning tore its way! 

That crash was nearer I Here 's our shelter — quick ! 

Now it 's upon us! Half a breath, and — there! 

No wonder you should tremble when the earth 

Sways thus and all the firmament 's a-reel. 

Tremble, but fear not— Love created Fear 

To drive men back to Love, where you are now. 

What rhythmic terror in the tideless sea 

That wildly seeks the refuge of the rocks 

From unknown dangers (dangers known are none) ! 

God! did you see within the headland's jaws 

That drifting sail? Wait the next flash and— look! 

Oh, heaven! to cruise about a hundred coasts. 

Safe past the fabled monsters of the deep. 



A C HO FIX FANTASY 23 

To break supinely on familiar shoals 

Where one in childhood digged a mimic grave! 

Thank God for those few, momentary stars, 
And that slow-lifting zone of topaz light, 
Like parting guest returning with a smile. 
We care not now that the insatiate storm 
Plunges with leaps of thunder on the east. 

( The music ceases) 

Give me thy hand, dear one, though unto pain 
I crush it to be sure that this be dream. 
Knowing 't was Death that passed, and oh, how 



24 IN TESLA'S LABORATORY 



IN TESLA' S LABORATORY 

Here in the dark what ghostly figures press ! — 
No phantom of the Past, or grim or sad ; 
No waih'ng spirit of woe ; no specter, clad 

In white and wandering cloud, whose dumb distress 

Is that its crime it never may confess ; 

No shape from the strewn sea ; nor they that add 
The link of Life and Death, — the tearless mad. 

That live nor die in dreary nothingness : 

But blessed spirits waiting to be born — 

Thoughts to unlock the fettering chains of Things : 
The Better Time ; the Universal Good, 
Their smile is like the joyous break of morn ; 

How fair, how near, how wistfully they brood ! 
Listen ! that murmur is of angels' wings. 



THE WISTFUL DAYS 



THE WISTFUL DAYS 

What is there wanting in the Spring ? 

The air is soft as yesteryear ; 

The happy-nested green is here, 
And half the world is on the wing. 

The morning beckons, and like balm 

Are westward waters blue and calm. 
Yet something 's wanting in the Spring. 

What is it wanting in the Spring ? 
O April, lover to us all, 
What is so poignant in thy thrall 

When children's merry voices ring ? 
What haunts us in the cooing dove 
More subtle than the speech of Love, 

What nameless lack or loss of Spring? 

Let Youth go dally with the Spring, 
Call her the dear, the fair, the young ; 
And all her graces ever sung 

Let him, once more rehearsing, sing. 
They know, who keep a broken tryst, 
Till something from the Spring be missed 

We have not truly known the Spring. 



26 "LOVE ONCE WAS LIKE AN APRIL DAWN" 



LOVE ONCE WAS LIKE AN APRIL DAWN " 

Love once was like an April dawn : 

Song throbbed within the heart by rote, 
And every tint of rose or fawn 
Was greeted by a joyous note. 

How eager was my thought to see 
Into that morning mystery ! 

Love now is like an August noon, 

No spot is empty of its shine ; 
The sun makes silence seem a boon, 
And not a voice so dumb as mine. 

Yet with what words I'd welcome thee — 
Couldst thou return, dear mystery ! 



A A' IRISH LOVE-SONG 



AN IRISH LOVE-SONG 

In the years about twenty 

(When kisses are plenty) 
The love of an Irish lass fell to my fate — 

So winsome and sightly, 

So saucy and sprightly, 
The priest was a prophet that christened her Kate. 

Soft gray of the dawning, 

Bright blue of the morning, 
The sweet of her eye there was nothing to mate ; 

A nose like a fairy's, 

A cheek like a cherry's. 
And a smile— well, her smile was hke— nothing but Kate. 

To see her was passion, 

To love her, the fashion ; 
What wonder my heart was unwilling to wait! 

And, daring to love her, 

I soon did discover 
A Katharine masking in mischievous Kate. 



28 AN IRISH LOVE-SONG 

No Katy unruly, 

But Katharine, truly — 
Fond, serious, patient, and even sedate ; 

With a glow in her gladness 

That banishes sadness — 
Yet stay ! Should I credit the sunshine to Kate ? 

Love cannot oudive it, 

Wealth cannot o'ergive it — 
That saucy surrender she made at the gate. 

O Time, be but human. 

Spare the girl in the woman ! 
You gave me my Katharine — leave me my Kate ! 



''OH, WASTE NO TEARS'' 29 



"OH, WASTE NO TEARS" 

Oh, waste no tears on Pain or Fate, 
Nor yet at Sorrow's dire demand ; 

Think not to drown Regret with weight 
Of weeping, as the sea the strand ; 

When was Death's victory less elate 

That Grief o'er-sobbed his grasping hand? 

Not for the flaws of life shall fall 
The tear most exquisite — ah, no ; 

But for its fine perfections all : 
For morning's joyous overflow, 

For sunset's fleeting festival, 

And what midwinter moons may show ; 

For wild-rose breath of Keats's line ; 

For Titian's rivalry of June ; 
For Chopin's tender notes that twine 

The sense in one autumnal tune ; 
For Brunelleschi's dome divine. 

In wonder planned, with worship hewn. 



30 "OH, WASTE NO TEARS'' 

Save them for heroes — not their blood, 
But for the generous vow it sealed ; 

For babes, when mothers say, " This bud 
Will be the blossom of the field " ; 

For women, when to Vengeance' flood 
They hold for Guilt a stainless shield. 

And when two hearts have closer come, 
Through doubts and mysteries and fears, 

Till in one look's delirium 

At last the happy truth appears. 

When words are weak and music dumb 
Then perfect love shall speak in tears. 



HER SMILE 31 



HER SMILE 

The odor is the rose ; 

The smile, the woman. 
Deh'ghts the bud doth sheathe, 
Unfolded, all may breathe. 
So joys that none could know 
Her smiles on all bestow, 

As though a rose were happy to be human! 



32 SONG FOR THE GUITAR 



SONG FOR THE GUITAR 

I GRIEVE to see these tears — 

Long strangers to thine eye — 
These jewels that fond years 
For me could never buy. 
Weep, weep, and give thy heart relief. 
I grieve, but 't is not for thy grief: 

Not for these tears — they were 

Another's ere they fell — 
But those that never stir 

The fountain where they dwell. 
I 'd smile, though thou shouldst weep a sea, 
Were but a single tear for me ! 



URSULA T,l 



URSULA 

I SEE her in the festal warmth to-night, 
Her rest all grace, her motion all delight. 
Endowed with all the woman's arts that please, 
In her soft gown she seems a thing of ease, 
Whom sorrow may not reach or evil blight. 

To-morrow she will toil from floor to floor 
To smile upon the unreplying poor, 
To stay the tears of widows, and to be 
Confessor to men's erring hearts . . . ah me ! 
She knows not I am beggar at her door. 



34 A DARK DAY 



A DARK DAY 

Gloom of a leaden sky 

Too heavy for hope to move 

Grief in my heart to vie 

With the dark distress above : 

Yet happy, happy am I — 
For I sorrow with her I love. 



THE SURPRISED AVOWAL 35 



THE SURPRISED AVOWAL 

When one word is spoken, 
When one look you see, 

When you take the token, 
Howe'er so sHght it be, 

The cage's bolt is broken, 
The happy bird is free. 

There is no unsaying 
That love-startled word ; 

It were idle praying 
It no more be heard ; 

Yet, its law obeying. 

Who shall blame the bird? 

What avails the mending 
Where the cage was weak? 

What avails the sending 
Far, the bird to seek, 

When every cloud is lending 
Wings toward yonder peak? 



36 THE SURPRISED AVOWAL 

Thrush, could they recapture 
You to newer wrong, 

How could you adapt your 
Strain to suit the throng? 

Gone would be the rapture 
Of unimprisoned song. 



THE BLOSSOM OF THE SOUL 37 



THE BLOSSOM OF THE SOUL 

Thou half-unfolded flower 
With fragrance-laden heart, 

What is the secret power 
That doth thy petals part? 

What gave thee most thy hue — 

The sunshine, or the dew? 

Thou wonder-wakened soul! 

As Dawn doth steal on Night 
On thee soft Love hath stole. 

Thine eye, that blooms with light, 
What makes its charm so new— 
Its sunshine, or its dew? 



38 ''I JOURNEYED SOUTH TO MEET THE SPRING 



"I JOURNEYED SOUTH TO MEET THE 
SPRING" 

I JOURNEYED South to meet the Spring, 

To feel the soft tide's gentle rise 
That to my heart again should bring, 
Foretold by many a whispering wing, 

The old, the new, the sweet surprise. 

For once, the wonder was not new — 

And yet it wore a newer grace : 
For all its innocence of hue, 
Its warmth and bloom and dream and dew, 

I had but left — in Helen's face. 



PARAPHRASES FROM THE SERVIAN 

OF 

ZMAI lOVAN lOVANOVICH 
AFTER LITERAL TRANSLATIONS 

BY 

NIKOLA TESLA 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

BY 

Mr. TESLA 



ZMAI lOVAN lOVANOVICH 

THE CHIEF SERVIAN POET OF TO-DAY 

Hardly is there a nation which has met with a sad- 
der fate than the Servian. From the height of its 
splendor, when the empire embraced almost the entire 
northern part of the Balkan peninsula and a large por- 
tion of the territory now belonging to Austria, the Ser- 
vian nation was plunged into abject slavery, after the 
fatal battle of 1389 at the Kosovo Polje, against the 
overwhelming Asiatic hordes. Europe can never repay 
the great debt it owes to the Servians for checking, by 
the sacrifice of their own liberty, that barbarian influx. 
The Poles at Vienna, under Sobieski, finished what the 
Servians attempted, and were similarly rewarded for 
their service to civilization. 

It was at the Kosovo Polje that Milosh Obilich, the 
noblest of Servian heroes, fell, after killing the Sultan 
Murat II. in the very midst of his great army. Were 
it not that it is an historical fact, one would be apt to 
consider this episode a myth, evolved by contact with 
the Greek and Latin races. For in Milosh we see both 

43 



44 IXTRODUCTOKY NOTE ON ZMAI 

Leonidas and Mucius, and, more than this, a martyr, 
for he does not die an easy death on the battle-field like 
the Greek, but pays for his daring deed with a death of 
fearful torture. It is not astonishing that the poetry of 
a nation capable of producing such heroes should be 
pervaded with a spirit of nobility and chivalry. Evey 
the indomitable Marko Kraljevich, the later incarnation 
of Servian heroism, when vanquishing Musa, the Mos- 
lem chief, exclaims, " Woe unto me, for I have killed 
a better man than myself!" 

From that fatal battle until a recent period, it has 
been black night for the Servians, with but a single star 
in the firmament-- Montenegro. In this gloom there 
was no hope for science, commerce, art, or industry. 
What could they do, this brave people, save to keep up 
the weary fight against the oppressor? And this they 
did unceasingly, though the odds were twenty to one. 
Yet fighting merely satisfied their wilder instincts. 
There was one more thing they could do, and did : the 
noble feats of their ancestors, the brave deeds of those 
who fell in the struggle for liberty, they embodied in 
immortal song. Thus circumstances and innate quah- 
ties made the Servians a nation of thinkers and poets, 
and thus, gradually, were evolved their magnificent 
national poems, which were first collected by their most 
prolific writer, Vuk Stefanovich Karajich, who also 
compiled the first dictionary of the Servian tongue, 
containing more than sixty thousand words. These 
national poems Goethe considered fit to match the finest 
productions of the Greeks and Romans. What would 
he have thought of them had he been a Servian? 

While the Servians have been distinguished in national 



INTR on UC TORY NO TE ON ZMA I 45 

poetry, they have also had many individual poets who 
attained greatness. Of contemporaries there is none 
who has grown so dear to the younger generation as 
Zmai lovan lovanovich. He was born in Novi Sad 
(Neusatz), a city at the southern border of Hungary, on 
November 24, 1833. He comes from an old and noble 
family, which is related to the Servian royal house. In 
his earliest childhood he showed a great desire to learn 
by heart the Servian national songs which were recited 
to him, and even as a child he began to compose poems. 
His father, who was a highly cultivated and wealthy 
gentleman, gave him his first education in his native 
city. After this he went to Budapest, Prague, and 
Vienna, and in these cities he finished his studies in law. 
This was the wish of his father, but his own inclinations 
prompted him to take up the study of medicine. He 
then returned to his native city, where a prominent 
official position was offered him, which he accepted ; 
but so strong were his poetical instincts that a year later 
he abandoned the post to devote himself entirely to 
literary work. 

His literary career began in 1849, his first poem being 
printed in 1852, in a journal called " Srbski Letopis " 
(" Servian Annual Review ") ; to this and to other jour- 
nals, notably " Neven " and " Sedmica," he contributed 
his early productions. From that period until 1870, 
besides his original poems, he made many beautiful 
translations from Petefy and Arany, the two greatest of 
the Hungarian poets, and from the Russian of Lermon- 
tof, as well as from German and other poets. In 1861 
he edited the comic journal, " Komarac " ("The Mos- 
quito "), and in the same year he started the literary 



46 IXTRODUCTORY NOTE ON ZMAI 

journal, "Javor," and to these papers he contributed 
many beautiful poems. In 1861 he married, and 
during the few happy years that followed he produced 
his admirable series of lyrical poems called " Giulichi," 
which probably remain his masterpiece. In 1862, 
greatly to his regret, he discontinued his beloved jour- 
nal, "Javor" — a sacrifice which was asked of him by 
the great Servian patriot, Miletich, who was then active 
on a political journal, in order to insure the success of 
the latter. 

In 1863 he was elected director of an educational 
institution, called the Tekelianum, at Budapest. He 
now ardently renewed the study of medicine at the uni- 
versity, and took the degree of doctor of medicine. 
Meanwhile he did not relax his literary labors. Yet, 
for his countrymen, more valuable even than his splen- 
did productions were his noble and unselfish efforts to 
nourish the enthusiasm of Servian youth. During his 
stay in Budapest he founded the literary society Preod- 
nica, of which he was president, and to which he de- 
voted a large portion of his energies. 

In 1864 he started his famous satirical journal, "Zmai" 
("The Dragon"), which was so popular that the name 
became a part of his own. In 1866 his comic play 
" Sharan " was given with great success. In 1872 he 
had the great pain of losing his wife, and, shortly after, 
his only child. How much these misfortunes affected 
him is plainly perceptible from the deeply sad tone of 
the poems which immediately followed. In 1873 he 
started another comic journal, the " Ziza." During the 
year 1877 he began an illustrated chronicle of the Russo- 
Turkish war, and in 1878 appeared his popular comic 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE ON ZMAl 47 

journal, " Starmali." During all this period he wrote 
not only poems, but much prose, including short novels, 
often under an assumed name. The best of these is 
probably " Vidosava Brankovicheva." In recent years 
he has published a great many charming little poems for 
children. 

Since 1870 Zmai has pursued his profession as a phy- 
sician. He is an earnest advocate of cremation, and 
has devoted much time to the furtherance of that cause. 
Until recently he was a resident of Vienna, but now he 
is domiciled in Belgrade. There he lives the life of a 
true poet, loving all and beloved by everybody. In 
recognition of his merit, the nation has voted him a 
subvention. 

The poems of Zmai are so essentially Servian that to 
translate them into another tongue appears next to 
impossible. In keen satire free from Voltairian venom, 
in good-hearted and spontaneous humor, in dehcacy 
and depth of expression, they are remarkable. Mr. 
Johnson has undertaken the task of versifying a few of 
the shorter ones after my literal and inadequate readings. 
Close translation being often out of the question, he has 
had to paraphrase, following as nearly as possible the 
original motives and ideas. In some instances he has ex- 
panded in order to complete a picture or to add a touch 
of his own. The poems which follow will give some 
idea of the versatility of the Servian poet, but come far 
short of indicating his range. 

Nikola Tesla. 

New York City. 



THE THREE GIAOURS 49 



THE THREE GIAOURS 

In the midst of the dark and stormy night 

Feruz Pacha awakes in fright, 

And springs from out his curtained bed. 

The candle trembles as though it read 

Upon his palhd face the theme 

And terror of his nightly dream. 

He calls to his startled favorite : 
" The keys ! the keys of the dungeon-pit ! 
Cannot those cursed Giaours stay 
There in their own dark, rotting away, 
Where I gave them leave three years ago ? 
Had I but buried their bones ! —but, no ! 
They come at midnight to clatter and creep, 
And haunt and threaten me in my sleep." 

" Pacha, wait till the morning light ! 
Do not go down that fearful flight 



50 THE THREE GIAOURS 

Where every step is a dead man's moan ! 
Mujo to-morrow will gather each bone 
And bury it deep. Let the Giaours freeze 
If thy bed be warm." 

" Nay, give me the keys. 
Girl, you talk like a wrinkled dame 
That shudders at whisper of a name. 
When they were hving, their curses made 
A thousand cowards : was I afraid ? 
Now they are dead, shall my fear begin 
With the Giaour's curse, or the skeleton's grin ? 
No, I must see them face to face 
In the very midst of their dwelling-place. 
And find what need they have of me 
That they call my name eternally." 

As groping along to the stair he goes, 

The hght of the shaking candle shows 

A face like a white and faded rose ; 

But if this be fear, it is fear to stay. 

For something urges him on his way — 

Though the steps are cold and the echoes mock — 

Till the right key screams in the rusted lock. 

Ugh ! what a blast from the dungeon dank ! — 
From the place where Hunger and Death were wed ; 
Whence even the snakes bv instinct fled. 



THE THREE GIAOURS 51 

While the very lizards crouched and shrank 
In a chill of terror. 'T is inky black 
And icy cold, but he cannot go back, 
For there, as though the darkness flowers — 
There sit the skeletons of three Giaours 
Ghost-white in the flickering candle-gleam ! — 
(Or is it the remnant of his dream ?) 
About a stone that is green with mold 
They sit in a group, and their fingers hold 
Full glasses, and as the glasses clink 
The first Giaour beckons him to drink. 

" Pacha, here is a glass for thee ! 

When last on me the sunlight shone 
I had a wife who was dear to me. 

She was alone — no, not alone; 
The blade in her hand was her comrade true. 
As she came to your castle, seeking you. 

"And when she came to your castle gate 
She dared you forth, but you would not go. 

Fiend and coward, you could not wait 
For a woman's wrath, but shot her, so. 

Her heart fell down in a piteous flood. 

This glass is filled with her precious blood. 

" See how fine as I hold it up ! 

Drink, Feruz Pacha, the brimming cup ! " 



52 THE THREE GIAOURS 

Spellbound the Pacha now draws nigh ; 
He empties the glass with a sudden cry : 
The skeletons drink with a laugh and toss, 
And they make the sign of the holy cross. 

Then speaks the second of the dead : 

" When to this darkness I was led, 

My mother asked, ' What sum will give 

Your prisoner back to the sun ? ' You said, 
' Three measures of gold, and the dog shall 
live.' 

Through pinching toil by noon and night 

She saved and saved till her hope grew bright. 

" But when she brought you the yellow hoard, 
You mocked at the drops on her tired brow. 

And said, 'Toward the pay for his wholesome 
board 
Of good round stones I will this allow.' 

She died while her face with toil was wet. 

This glass is filled with her faithful sweat. 

" See how fine as I hold it up ! 

Drink, Feruz Pacha, the brimming cup ! " 

Haggard the Pacha now stands by ; 
He drains the glass with a stifled cry : 



THE THREE GIAOURS 53 

Again they drink with a laugh and toss, 

And the third one says, as his comrades cross : 

" When this black shadow on me fell, 
There sang within my mountain home 

My one pale lad. Bethought him well 
That he would to my rescue come ; 

But when he tried to lift the gun 

He tottered till the tears would run. 

" Though vengeance sped his weary feet. 
Too late he came. Then back he crept, — 

Forgot to drink, forgot to eat, — 
And no slow moment went unwept. 

He died of grief at his meager years. 

This glass is laden with his tears. 

" See how fine as I hold it up ! 

Drink, Feruz Pacha, the brimming cup ! " 

The Pacha staggers ; he holds it high ; 
He drinks ; he falls with a moan and cry : 
They latigh, they cross, but they drink no more — 
For the dead in the dungeon-cave are four. 



54 LUKA FILIPOV 



LUKA FILIPOV 

(an incident of the MONTENEGRIN WAR OF 1 876-78) 

One more hero to be part 

Of the Servians' glory ! 
Lute to lute and heart to heart 

Tell the homely story ; 
Let the Moslem hide for shame, 
Trembling like the falcon's game, 
Thinking on the falcon's name — 
Luka Filipov. 

When he fought with sword and gun 

Doughty was he reckoned ; 
When he was the foremost, none 

Blushed to be the second. 
But he tired of the taint 
Of the Turk's blood, learned restraint 
From his sated sword — the quaint 
Luka Filipov. 



LUKA FILIPOV 55 

Thus he reasoned : Though they fall 

Like the grass in mowing, 
Yet the dead Turks, after all, 

Make a sorry showing. 
Foes that die remember not 
How our Montenegrins bought 
Our unbroken freedom — thought 
Luka Filipov. 

So, in last year's battle-storm 

Swooped our Servian falcon, 
Chose the sleekest of the swarm 

From beyond the Balkan : 
Plucked a pacha from his horse, 
Carried him away by force. 
While we cheered along his course : 
" Luka ! " " Filipov ! " 

To the Prince his prize he bore 

Just as he had won him — 
Laid him at the Prince's door. 

Not a scratch upon him. 
" Prince, a present ! And for fear 
He should find it lonely here, 
I will fetch his mate," said queer 
Luka Filipov. 



56 LUKA FILIPOV 

Back into the fight he rushed 

Where the Turks were flying, 
Past his kinsmen boldly brushed, 

Leaping dead and dying : 
Seized a stalwart infidel, 
Wrenched his gun and, like a spell, 
Marched him back — him heeding well 
Luka Filipov. 

But the Moslems, catching breath 

Mid their helter-skelter, 
Poured upon him hail of death 

From a rocky shelter, 
Till a devil-guided ball 
Striking one yet wounded all : 
For there staggered, nigh to fall, 
Luka Filipov ! 

Paused the conflict — all intent 

On the two before us ; 
And the Turkish regiment 

Cheered in hideous chorus 
As the prisoner, half afraid, 
Turned and started up the glade. 
Thinking — dullard ! — to evade 
Luka Fihpov. 



LUKA FILIPOV 57 

We 'd have fired— but Luka's hand 

Rose in protestation, 
While his pistol's mute command 

Needed no translation ; 
For the Turk retraced his track, 
Knelt and took upon his back 
(As a peddler shifts his pack) 
Luka Filipov ! 

How we cheered him as he passed 
Through the line, a-swinging 

Gun and pistol— bleeding fast- 
Grim— but loudly singing : 

" Lucky me to find a steed 

Fit to give the Prince for speed ! 

Rein or saddle ne'er shall need 
Luka Filipov ! " 

So he urged him to the tent 

Where the Prince was resting — 
Brought his captive, shamed and spent, 

To make true his jesting. 
And as couriers came to say 
That our friends had won the day, 
Who should up and faint away ? 
Luka Filipov. 



5 8 A MOTHER OF BOSNIA 



A MOTHER OF BOSNIA 



Three sons she has of Servian mold 
As balsam for her widow's grief, 

While in her Danka all behold 
A treasure precious past belief. 

Oh, lovely Danka ! happy she, 
More fortunate than all beside, 

To be the pride of brothers three, 
Themselves of Bosnia the pride ! 

In her they glory ; she inspires 
To freedom's never-ending fight, 

And in their hearts burn patriot fires, 
As stars upon the Turkish night. 

And often at the mother's door 

Tears mingle with the words that bless : 



A MO THEE OF BOSNIA 59 

O gods of battle ! guard my four — 
My falcons and my falconess." 



Her radiant beauty nothing hides — 
What wonder that the Turk has seen, 

And as before her door he rides 
The Raven-Aga calls her queen ! 

For three nights has he lain a\\«ke— 
To call on Allah ? Nay, till dawn 

Calling on Danka, for whose sake 
His heart is sore, his brow is wan. 

He gathers warriors ere the sun ; 

They gallop quickly through the murk ; 
And Danka, at the signal-gun. 

Cries, " Save me, brothers ! —'tis the Turk ! 

Now flash the rifles, speeds the fight, 
Till, shamed, the Raven-Aga flies. 

Alas for Danka ! in her sight 
One lion-hearted brother dies. 



6o A MOTHER OF BOSXIA 

Again the infidel appears, 

And at his heels ride forty guns ; 

But at the voice of Danka's fears 
Red many a Turkish stirrup runs. 

But, oh, at vespers, when once more 
The baffled Raven back has fled, 

Across the sill of Danka's door 
There lies another brother, dead. 

The Turkish devil once again 

Summojis each savage wedding-guest, 

And half a hundred to be slain 

Go forth at midnight toward the west. 

Once more the stealthy Moslems ride. 
Once more the Servians gather fast, 

As Danka summons to her side 
Her brother — and her last. 

The fight grows fiercer, till the dead 
Fill the dim street from wall to wall. 

Call on thy mother. Battle-wed — 
Thou hast no brother left to call ! 

The Raven seizes her and croaks : 

" At last thou art my biide, proud maid ! " 



A MOTHER OF BOSNIA 6i 

" Not thine — my yataghan's ! " Two strokes — 
Her warm heart weds the loval blade. 



Ill 

DriRK is the night as on the slopes 
Of that deserted battle-gromid 

The mother, crazed with sorrow, gropes 
Until her sons' three swords are found. 

And as she roam.s through Servian lands 
(Her mirth more piteous than tears) 

She bears a blade in her thin hands 
To right the wrongs of many years. 

And offering Danka's phghted knife 
Or one of those three patriot swords, 

She calls the coldest rock to strife, — 
" Take, and repel the Turkish hordes ! " 

And as the rock no word replies, 

She asks, " Are you not Servian too ? 

Why are you silent then ?" she cries ; 
" Is there no living heart in you ? " 

She treads the dreary night alone ; 
There is no echo to her moan. . . . 
Is everv heart a '^eart of stone ? 



62 THE MONSTER 



THE MONSTER 

" In place of the heart, a serpent ; 

Rage — for the mind's command 
An eye aflame with wildness ; 

A weapon in the hand ; 

" A brow with midnight clouded ; 

On the lips a cynic smile 
That tells of a curse unmatchable- 

Born of a sin most vile. 

" Of longing, or hope, or virtue, 
No vestige may there be ; 

You, even in vice inhuman — 
What can you want of me ? 

" You in its maddest moment 
The Deepest Pit designed, — 

Let loose to sow confusion 
In the order of mankind ; 



THE MONSTER d-^ 

" Here Hatred found you crawling 

Like vermin, groveling, prone. 
Filled you with blood of others 

And poisoned all your own. 

"Your very thoughts are fiendish — 

Smoke of the fires of Hell. 
Weird as you are, how is it 

I seem to know you well ? 

" Why with your wild delirium 

Do you infect my sleep ? 
Why with my daily footstep 

An equal measure keep ? " 



The monster mutely beckons me 
Back with his ghostly hand. 

And dreading his fearful answer 
I heed the grim command. 

" Nay, softly," he says ; " I pray thee, 
Silence thy frightened moan. 

And wipe the sweat from thy forehead 
My kinsman thou, my own ! 



64 THE MOKSTER 

" Look at me well, good cousin ; 

Such wert thou fashioned of ! 
Thou, too, wouldst me resemble 

Without that made — Love!" 



TIVO DREAMS 65 



TWO DREAMS 

Deep on the bosom of Jeel-Begzad 
(Darling daughter of stern Bidar) 

Sleeps the rose of her lover lad. 

It brings this word : When the zenith-star 

Melts in the full moon's rising hght, 

Then shall her Giaour come — to-night. 

What is the odor that fills her room ? 

Ah ! 't is the dream of the sleeping rose : 
To feel his lips near its velvet bloom 

In the secret shadow no moonbeam knows, 
Till the maiden passion within her breast 
Kindles to flame where the kisses rest. 

By the stealthy fingers of old Bidar 
(Savage father of Jeel-Begzad) — 

Never bloodless in peace or war — 

Was a handjar sheathed ; and each one had 

Graved on its handle a Koran prayer — 

He can feel it now, in his ambush there ! 



66 TWO DREAMS 

The moon rides pale in the quiet night ; 

It puts out the stars, but never the gleam 
Of the waiting blade's foreboding light, 

Astir in its sheath in a horrid dream 
Of pain, of blood, and of gasping breath, 
Of the thirst of vengeance drenched in death. 

The dawn did the dream of the rose undo. 
But the dream of the sleeping blade came true. 



MYSTERIOUS LOVE 67 



MYSTERIOUS LOVE 

Into the air I breathed a sigh ; 

She, afar, another breathed — 
Sighs that, hke a butterfly, 
Each went wandering low and high, 

Till the air with sighs was wreathed. 

When each other long they sought, 

On a star-o'er-twinkled hill 
Jasmine, trembling with the thought, 
Both within her chahce caught, 
A lover's potion to distil. 

Drank of this a nightingale. 

Guided by the starlight wan — 
Drank and sang from dale to dale, 
Till every streamlet did exhale 
Incense to the waking dawn. 

Like the dawn, the maiden heard ; 
While, afar, I felt the fire 



58 MYSTERIOUS LOVE 

In the bosom of the bird ; 
Forth our sighs again were stirred 
With a se\-enfold desire. 

These we followed till we learned 
Where they trysted ; there erelong 

Their fond nightingale returned. 

Deeper then our longings burned, 
Deeper the delights of song. 

Now, when at the wakening hour, 

Sigh to sigh, we greet his lay. 
Well we know its mystic power- 
Feeling dawn and bird and flower 
Pouring meaning into May. 

Jasmine, perfume every grove ! 

Nightingale, forever sing 
To the brightening dawn above 
Of the mystery of love 

In the mystery of spring ! 



THE COMING OF SONG 69 



THE COMING OF SONG 

When the sky darkened on the first great sin, 

And gates that shut man out shut Hope within, 

Like to the falcon when his wing is broke, 

The bitter cry of mortals then awoke : 

" Too heavy is our burden," groaned the two. 

" Shall woes forever on our track pursue. 

And nest within these empty hearts ? Or, worse, 

Shall we be withered by the cruel curse ? 

Already less than human, shall we fall 

By slow succession to some animal ? " 

Then, filled with pity at the desperate cry, 

Came from His throne of thunder the Most High : 

" That you should sufiFer " (spake the Voice) " is just ; 

'T is you have chosen for a feast a crust. 

But not so unrelenting I — the least 

Of all your kind shall be above the beast. 

That erring mortals be not lost in fear, 

Come from My shining courts, O daughter dear ! 



7° THE COMIXG OF SOXG 

Thou dost to heaven, shalt to earth belong." 
She came ; she stayed : it was the Muse of Song. 

Again the day was radiant with Hght, 

And something more than stars iUumed the night. 

Hope, beckoning, to the desert took its flight. 

Where is Pain and dire Distress, 
Song shall soothe hke soft caress ; 
Though the stoutest courage fails, 
Song 's an anchor in all gales ; 
When all others fail to reach, 
Song shall be the thrilling speech ; 
Love and friends and comfort fled. 
Song shall linger by your bed ; 
And when Doubt shall question, Why ? 
Song shall lift you to the sky. 



CUHSES 71 



CURSES 

Fain would I curse thee, sweet unkind! 

That thou art fair ; 
Fain curse my mother, that not blind 

She did me bear ; 
But, no ! — each curse would break, not bind, 

The heart ye share. 



72 A FAIRY FROM THE SUX-SHOIVER 



A FAIRY FROM THE SUN-SHOWER 

[When the Servians see the sun-rays of a summer shower they 
say it is the fairies combing their hair.] 

Over the meadow a shower is roaming ; 

Just beyond is the summer sun ; 
Fair is the hair that the fays are combing — 

Myth come true ! here 's my dainty one 
Tripping the path in the wind's soft blowing ; 
Her slender form through her gown is showing. 
Her foot scarce whispers the way she 's going. 

" Come, my bright one, come, my soul, 

Let my kisses be your goal." 

But the path has heard my sighing. 

Turns aside, and leads my fay 
Into the forest, love defying. 

Path, accursed be ! — but stay ! 
Lost to love each moment gliding. 
What if in the woodland hiding 
Still for me my fay be biding ! . . . 

" Wait, my bright one, wait, my soul, 

Your sweet kisses are my goal." 



FRAGMENT FROM THE " GIULICHE'' 73 



"WHY," YOU ASK, "HAS NOT THE 
SERVIAN PERISHED?" 

FRAGMENT FROM THE " GIULICHE " (" JEWELS") 

" Why," you ask, " has not the Servian perished, 
Such calamities about him throng ? " 

With the sword alike the lyre he cherished : 
He is saved by Song! 



74 "/ BEGGED A KISS OF A LITTLE MAID'' 



I BEGGED A KISS OF A LITTLE MAID" 

I BEGGED a kiss of a little maid ; 

Shyly, sweetly, she consented ; 
Then of a sudden, all afraid, 

After she gave it, she repented ; 
And now as penance for that one kiss 
She asks a poem — I '11 give her this. 

But how can my song be my very best 
When she, with a voice as soft as Circe's, 

Has charmed the heart from my lonely breast — 
The heart, the fountain of all true verses ? 

Why, oh, why should a maid do this ? 

No — I must give her back her kiss. 



lf^//V THE ARMY BECAME QUIET 75 



WHY THE ARMY BECAME QUIET 

Some said they did but play at war, — 
How that may be, ah ! who can tell ? 

I know the gallant army corps 
Upon their fleeing foemen fell, 

And sacked their camp, and took their town, 

And won both victory and renown. 

Now home returning, wild with song, 
They come, the colors flying free. 

But as within the door they throng. 
Why does the army suddenly 

Hush the fierce din, and silence keep ? — 

Why, little brother is asleep. 



76 THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 



THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 

You 're admiring my horse, sir, I see. 

He 's so light that you 'd think it 's a bird — 
Say a swallow. Ah me ! 

He 's a prize ! 

It 's absurd 
To suppose you can take him all in as he passes 

With the best pair of eyes. 

Or the powerful aid 
Of your best pair of glasses : 

Take 'em off, and let 's trade. 

What ! " Is Selim as good as he seems .'' " 

Never fear. 

Uncle dear, 
He 's as good as the best of your dreams, 

And as sound as your sleep. 

It 's only that kind that a gipsy would keep. 
The emperor's stables can't furnish his mate. 
But his iirit and his crait, 



THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 77 

And his wind and his ways, 

A gipsy like me does n't know how to praise. 
But (if truth must be told) 
Although you should cover him over with gold 
He 'd be worth one more sovereign still. 

" Is he old .? " 
Oh, don't look at his teeth, my dear sir ! 
I never have seen 'em myself. 
Age has nothing to do with an elf ; 
So it 's fair to infer 
My fairy can never grow old. 
Oh, don't look — (Here, my friend, 
Will you do me the kindness to hold 
For a moment these reins while I 'tend 
To that fly on his shanks ?) . . . 
As I said — (Ah — now — thanks !) 
The longer you drive 
The better he '11 thrive. 
He '11 never be laid on the shelf ! 

The older that colt is, the younger he '11 grow. 
I 've tried him for years, and I know. 

" Eat ? Eat ? " do you say ? 

Oh, that nag is n't nice 

About eating ! Whatever you have will suffice. 



78 THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 

He takes everything raw — 
Some oats or some hay, 

Or a small wisp of straw, 

If you have it. If not, never mind — 
SeHm won't even neigh. 
What kind of a feeder is he ? That 's the kind ! 

" Is he clever at jmnping a fence ? " 
What a question to ask ! He 's immense 

At a leap ! 

How absurd ! 

Why, the trouble 's to keep 
Such a Pegasus down to the ground. 
He takes every fence at a bound 
With the grace of a bird ; 

And so great is his strength, 

And so keen is his sense. 

He goes over a fence 
Not across, but the way of its length ! 

" Under saddle ? " No saddle for Selim ! 
Why, you 've only to mount him, and feel him 

Fly level and steady, to see 

What disgrace that would be. 
No, you could n't more deeply insult him, unless 
You attempted to guess 

And pry into his pedigree. 



THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 79 

Now why should you speak of his eyes ? 

Does he seem hke a horse that would need 

An eye-glass to add to his speed 
Or, perchance, to look wise ? 

No indeed. 

Why, not only 's the night to that steed 
Just the same as the day, 

But he knows all that passes — 
Both before and behind, either way. 

Oh, he does n't need glasses ! 

" Has he any defect ? " What a question, my friend ! 

That is why, my dear sir, I am willing to sell. 

You know very well 
It is only the horse that you give or you lend 
That has glanders, or springhalt, or something to mend : 

'T is because not a breath 

Of defect or of death 
Can be found on my Selim. that he *s at your pleasure. 
Alas ! not for gipsies the care of such treasure. 

And now about speed. " Is he fast ? " I should say ! 
Just listen — I '11 tell you. 

One equinox day. 
Coming home from Erdout in the usual way, 
A terrible storm overtook us. 'T was plain 
There was nothing to do but to run for it. Rain, 



So THE GIPSY PRAISES HIS HORSE 

Like the blackness of night, gave us chase. But that nag, 
Though he 'd had a hard day, did n't tremble or sag. 

Then the lightning would flash, 

And the thunder would crash 

With a terrible din. 
They were eager to catch him ; but he would just neigh, 
Squint back to make sure, and then gallop away. 
\A^ell, this made the storm the more furious yet, 
And we raced and we raced, but he was n't upset, 

And he would n't give in ! 
At last when we got to the foot of the hill 

At the end of the trail, 
By the stream where our white gipsy castle was set, 
And the boys from the camp came a-waving their caps, 

At a word he stood still. 
To be hugged by the girls and be praised by the chaps. 

We had beaten the gale, 
And Selim was dry as a bone — well, perhaps, 

Just a httle bit damp on the tip of his tail.* 

* Readers will be reminded by this conclusion of Mark Twain's 
story of the fast horse as told to him by Oudinot, of the Sandwich 
Islands, and recorded in " The Galaxy" for April, 1871. In that 
veracious narrative it is related that not a single drop fell on the 
driver, but the dog was swimming behind the wagon all the way. 



THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 



THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 85 



THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 

Silence was envious of the only voice 

That mightier seemed than she. So, cloaked as Death, 

With potion borrowed from Oblivion, 

Yet with slow step and tear-averted look, 

She sealed his lips, closed his extinguished eyes, 

And veiling him with darkness, deemed him dead. 

But no! — There 's something vital in the great 

That blunts the edge of Death, and sages say 

You should stab deep if you would kill a king. 

In vain! The conqueror's conqueror he remains. 

Surviving his survivors. And as when, 

The prophet gone, his least disciple stands 

Newly invested with a twilight awe. 

So linger men beside his listeners 

While they recount that miracle of speech 

And the hushed wonder over which it fell. 

What do they tell us of that mighty voice? 
Breathing an upper air, wherein he dwelt 
'Mid shifting clouds a mountain of resolve, 
And falling like Sierra's April flood 



86 THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 

That pours in ponderous cadence from the chflF, 
Waking Yosemite from its sleep of snow, 
And less by warmth than by its massive power 
Thawing a thousand torrents into one. 
Such was his speech, and were his fame to die 
Such for its requiem alone were fit : 
Some kindred voice of Nature, as the Sea 
When autumn tides redouble their lament 
On Marshfield shore ; some elemental force 
Kindred to Nature in the mind of man — 
A far-felt, rhythmic, and resounding wave 
Of Homer, or a freedom-breathing wind 
Sweeping the height of Milton's loftiest mood. 
Most fit of all, could his own words pronounce 
His eulogy, eclipsing old with new, 
As though a dying star should burst in light. 

And yet he spoke not only with his voice. 

His full brow, buttressing a dome of thought, 

Moved the imagination hke the rise 

Of some vast temple covering nothing mean. 

His eyes were sibyls' caves, wherein the wise 

Read sibyls' secrets ; and the iron clasp 

Of those broad lips, serene or saturnine. 

Made proclamation of majestic will. 

His glance could silence like a frowning Fate. 



THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 87 

His mighty frame was refuge, while his mien 
Did make dispute of stature with the gods. 

See, in the Senate, how his presence towers 

Above the tallest, who but seem as marks 

To guide the unwonted gaze to where he stands, 

First of his peers — a lordly company. 

Each State still gave the others of its best — 

Our second race of giants, now, alas! 

Buried beneath the lava-beds of war. 

Not yet had weaklings trod the purchased path 

To a feigned honor in the curule chair. 

Holding a world's contempt of them for fame — 

As one should take the leaves stripped from his scourge 

To wreathe himself a counterfeit of bay. 

An age is merely Man, and, thus compact. 

Must grimly expiate paternal sins ; 

That age's shame stands naked to the world, 

And no man dares to hide it ; yet one boast 

Palsies the pointing finger of to-day : 

' T was slave, not master, that 7ve bought ami sold. 

Oh for fit word of scorn to execrate 
Oiu" brood new-born of Greed and Liberty! 
Not the blind mass of stumbling ignorance 
(For the dread portent of a blackening cloud 



88 THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 

May by bold shafts of sunlight be dispersed), 
But those who lead them to the nation's hurt — 
These our kind neighbors, semblances of men. 
The Church's bulwark, the beloved of homes, 
Locked fast in friendship's ever-loyal pledge, 
Yet to whom treason is their daily breath. 
Not Lucifer, on each conspiring wind 
Rallying his abject crew to new assaults ; 
Not all the recreant names that spawning War 
Has cursed with immortality, can match 
The craft of their betrayals. All is sold : 
Law, justice, mercy, and the future's hope — 
This land that buoys the fainting fears of Man. 
Yet to praise Webster one of these has dared ! — 
Webster, undaunted by the hour's reproof, 
Webster, untempted by the hour's applause, 
Who scorned to win by any art but truth! 
Who, had he heard the impious flattery. 
Across the Senate would have launched his wrath, 
Like Cicero on cowering Catiline, 
In one white passion that forevermore 
Had saved to Infamy an empty name 
That now he spurns in silence from his grave. 

Yet had he frailties, which let those recount 
Who have not seen the nigh-o'erwhelmed state 



THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 

Rescued from peril by some roisterer's skill 

While all the petted virtues of the home 

Stood pale and helpless. Time 's a mountain-wall 

That gives a fainter echo to one's best, 

But to what 's weak or wanting, mere disdain. 

He had his passions — all but one are dead : 

That was his country. Never lover loved. 

Soldier defended, poet praised, as he, 

Who marveled all should worship not his queen. 

And much forgave to any loving her. 

And when, one desperate day, the threatening hand 

His hand so long arrested, he being gone. 

Felt 'neath its pillow for the unsheath'd sword, 

Who spoke for Union but with Webster's voice? 

Who struck for Union but with Webster's arm? 

Forgetful of the father in the son. 

Men praised in Lincoln what they blamed in him. 

And though, his natural tenderness grown grave, 

He lives not in Love's immortality 

Like Lincoln, shrined within his foeman's heart ; 

Though he trod not the path of him whose soul 

Triumphed in song that beckoned armies on 

More than persuading drum, dare-devil fife, 

Or clarion bugle ; though no battle-flame 

Rose to a peak in him : yet was his blood 

In heroes and his wrath in righteous war. 



90 THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 

Then did the vision of his patriot hope, 
Pictured in pleading but in warning words, 
Inspire the inspirers, nerve the halting brave, 
Make triflers solemn with the choice of death. 
And when at last came Peace, the friend of all. 
Grateful and wondrous as first drops of rain 
After the long starvation of the drought, 
Men harkened back to that prophetic hour 
When two protagonists, like chosen knights, 
Made long and suave epitome of war : 
When Hayne arose 't was Sumter's gun was heard, 
When Webster closed 't was Appomattox field. 

But oh, his larger triumph was to come! 

His voice, in victory potent, was in peace 

Predominant. His all-benignant thought 

That, never wavering through the strife of words. 

No AUeghanies, no Potomac knew, 

Searching the future to bring oHve back. 

Lived like a fragrance in the heart of Grant, 

And at the perilous moment of success 

Pointed the path to concord from the grave. 

And what famed concord! — not a grudging truce. 

Nor interlude of hate, but peace divine : 

When hands still wet with blood again were clasped, 

Each foe forgiving what is ne'er forgot ; 



THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 91 

The hacked sword eager for the scabbard's rest, 
Not from the fear, but for the love of man. 
O loftier conquest of the Blue that warred 
For freedom, not for conquest! Victory, 
Unsought, of all the hardly vanquished Gray! 
Marvel of Europe staggering in arms ; 
Message of Hope unto the souls that herd 
Dumb at the slaughter for the whim of kings ; 
Lusus of History until wars shall cease. 
My country! since nor memory of strife, 
Nor natural vengeance, nor the orphan's tears 
Can from Love's nobler triumph hale thee back : 
Who worthier than thou to lead the way 
Unto the everlasting Truce of God, 
When brothers shall toward brothers over sea 
Stretch not the sword-blade, but the open palm, 
Till on Time's long but ever-upward slope 
They mount together to unreckoned heights. 
And grateful nations gladly follow them ! 

Thus sang I, proud to be but one of all 
The sands upon a shore whereon there breaks. 
Freighted with purpose'vast, the will of Heaven — 
When a rude clash I heard, that yet I hear, 
When Discord grasped again her rusted harp 
And struck new terror from the raveled strings, 



92 THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 

Calling Ambition blindfold to the lead 
Of Want, Dishonor, Perfidy, and Crime, 
Who in their turn misguide the innocent. 
Groping their way by the last firebrands 
Plucked from their holocaust of hoarded truth. 
The air we thought as peaceful as the noon 
Was dark with sudden hatred, as with cloud 
Blown, in long-gathered tempest, from the West, 
Like a wild storm of summer heat and wind 
Circling in passion, bruited by dismay, 
And dragging death and chaos in its train. 
As some old myth of savagery come true, 
And Nature had turned demon, rending Man. 

This madness Webster still can medicine. 

Who was physician to its earlier taint. 

He did not fury then with fury meet. 

But to the sanity of eternal law 

Wooed back the wandering mind. Who could forget 

His calming presence when, ere he began, 

Confusion fled before his morning look 

Of power miraculously new and mild ; 

The speech as temperate as a wind of May ; 

The mind as candid as the noonday light ; 

The tones deliberate, confident, sedate, 

Waking no passion, and yet moving all 



THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 93 

With such a high compulsion that at last 
Reason, the king that well-nigh had been lost 
Upon the confines of his sovereign realm, 
Remounted to the throne with steady step. 
And men again were proud of his control. 

So, in these days of hopeful hearts' despair, 

When perils threat, ay, throng the ship of state, 

And less from gale without than torch within. 

Who — who but Webster with his faith serene 

Shall rouse the sleeping to command their fate. 

Shall bid them steer by the unswerving stars. 

And in them troth with Liberty renew? 

Imagination gave his spirit wings. 

That, seeing past the tempest and the flame. 

He might remind us of our destiny : 

To save from faction what was meant for Man ; 

To cherish brotherhood simplicity, 

The chance for each that is the hope for all ; 

To guard the realm from Sloth, and Greed, and Waste — 

Those sateless Gorgon s of democracy ; 

And above all, whatever storm may rage. 

To cling to Law, the path of Liberty, 

The prop of heaven, the very pulse of God. 

Thus our new soil, the home of every seed. 

Where first the whole world meets on equal terms, 



94 THE VOICE OF WEBSTER 

Shall such new marvels show of man's estate 
In knowledge, wisdom, beauty, virtue, power. 
The Past shall fade in pity or in scorn, 
While fresher joys shall thrill the pulse of earth. 

No, Webster's fame not Webster's self can blot. 

Fair is perfection's image in the soul, 

And yearning for it holds the world to good. 

Yet is it such a jewel as may not 

Unto a single guardian be entrust. 

But to the courage of a multitude 

Who all together have what each may lack. 

Though men may falter, it is Virtue's strength 

To be indelible : our smallest good 

By our worst evil cannot be undone. 

The discords of that life — how short they fall. 

Like ill-strung arrows! But its harmonies — 

Harmonious speech large with harmonious thought - 

Dwell in a nation's peace, a nation's hope. 

Imperishable music ; not the rhythm 

Of some remembering moment, but the peal 

And crash of conflict unforgettable 

Piercing the mid and thick of night. No, no, 

That voice of thunder died not with the storm. 

But in the dull and coward times of peace 

Long shall its echoes rouse the patriot's heart. 



HANDS ACROSS SEA 



The War of Independence was virtually a second Eng- 
lish civil war. The ruin of the American cause would 
have been also the ruin of the constitutional cause in 
England; and a patriotic Englishman may revere the 
memory of Patrick Henry and George Washington not 
less justly than the patriotic American. 

—John Morley, on Burke. 



HANDS ACROSS SEA 99 



HANDS ACROSS SEA 



England, thou breeder of heroes and of bards, 

Had ever nation manher shield or song! 

For thee such rivalry have sword and pen. 

Fame, from her heaped green, crowns with equal hand 

The deathless deed and the immortal word. 

For which dost thou thy Sidney hold more dear. 

Defense of England or of Poesie? 

Cromwell or Milton — if man's guiding stars 

Could vanish as they came — which wouldst thou spare? 

Lost Kempenfelt indeed, were Cowper mute! 

To victory, not alone on shuddering seas 

Rode Nelson, but on Campbell's tossing rhyme. 

Hark to thy great Duke's greater dirge, and doubt 

For which was Waterloo the worthier won. 

To change the tyrant on a foreign throne. 

Or add a faultless ode to English song. 

Great deeds make poets : by whose nobler word, 

In turn, the blood of heroes is transfused 



lOO HANDS ACROSS SEA 

Into the veins of sluggards, till they rise, 
Surprised, exalted to the height of men. 

Nor can Columbia choose between the two 

Which give more glory to thy Minster gloom. 

They are our brave, our deathless, our divine — 

Our Saxon grasp on their embattled swords. 

Our Saxon numbers in their lyric speech. 

We grudge no storied wreath, nay, would withhold 

Of bay or laurel not one envied leaf. 

Then, on thy proud cliff fronting Europe-ward, 

Strong in thyself, not by some weaker prop. 

Give to the greeting of a kindred voice 

A moment in the ebb of thy disdain. 

II 

Is it but chance that in thy treasured verse 
There is no paean, no exulting line. 
No phrase of martial fervor, to record 
The Briton's prowess on our Western shore? 
There was no lapse of valiance in thy race — 
Or else had Time forgot to mark the years. 
Nor hast thou since had lack of many a voice 
Whose words, like wings to seed, on every air 
From land to hospitable land import 



HANDS ACROSS SEA 

Thy progeny of courage, justice, truth. 
Why, then, when all our songs were resonant, 
Were all thy singers silent? Candor, speak! 
There is a daemon makes the Muses dumb 
When they would praise the wrong : but Liberty 
From Nature has inheritance of speech — 
The forest harp, the flood's processional, 
The glorious antiphone of every shore. 
When these are dumb, then poets may be mute^. 

in 

Taught by thy heroes, summoned by thy bards, 

Against the imperious folly of thy kings 

Twice our reluctant banners were arrayed. 

What matter if the victors were not thine, 

If thine the victories? Thou art more secure 

Saved from the canker of successful wrong. 

Thou dost not blush for Naseby, where, of old, 

England most conquered, conquering EngHshmen. 

So when thou hear'st the trumpets in our verse 

In praise of our new land's deliverance, 

Hard won from Winter, Hunger, and from thee, 

And from those allies thou didst hire and scorn, 

Deem it not hatred, nor the vulgar pride 

Of the arena, nor the greed of fame. 



I02 HANDS ACROSS SEA 

('Twixt men or nations, there 's no victory 

Save when an angel overcomes in both.) 

Would all our strife were blameless! Some, alas! 

Hath trophies hoarded only to be hid, 

For courage cannot hallow wanton war. 

Be proud our hand against thee ne'er was raised 

But to wrench English justice from thy grasp. 

And, as to landsmen, far from windy shores, 

The breathing shell may bear the murmuring sea. 

Still in our patriot song reverberates 

The mighty voice that sang at Hampden's side. 

IV 

True, there are those of our impassioned blood 

Who can forget but slowly that thy great 

Misread the omens of our later strife. 

And knew not Freedom when she called to thee. 

These think they hate thee! — these, who have embraced 

Before the altar their fraternal foes! 

Not white of York and red of Lancaster 

More kindly mingle in thy rose of peace 

Than blend in cloudless dawn our blue and gray. 

Already Time and History contend 

For sinking rampart and the grassy ridge 

That with its challenge startles pilgrim feet 



HANDS ACROSS SEA 103 

Along the fringes of the wounded wood. 

The bedtime wonder of our children holds 

Vicksburg coeval with the siege of Troy, 

And the scorned slave so hastened to forgive 

The scar has lost remembrance of the lash. 

Since Love has drawn the sting of that distress, 

For one with wrath to compass sea and years 

Were but to make of injury a jest, 

Holding the occasion guiltier than the cause. 

But Hate 's a weed that withers in the sun ; 

A cell of which the prisoner holds the key, 

His will his jailer ; nay, a frowning tower 

Invincible by legions, but with still 

One secret weakness : xvJw can hate may love. 

Oh, pausing in thy cordon of the globe, 

Let one full drop of English blood be spilled 

For Liberty, not England : men would lose 

Their fancied hatred in an ardor new. 

As Minas Channel turns to Fundy's tide. 

Hate thee? Hast thou forgot red Pei-ho's stream, 

The triple horror of the ambuscade, 

The hell of battle, the foredoomed assault, 

When thou didst stand the champion of the world, 

Though the awed sea for once deserted thee? 

Who then sprang to thee, breaking from the bonds 

Of old observance, with a human cry, 



104 HANDS ACROSS SEA 

Thirsting to share thy glorious defeat 

As men are wont to covet victory? 

Hate thee? Hast thou forgot Samoa's reef, 

The day more dark than any starless night, 

The black storm buffeting the hopeless ships, 

The struggle of thy sons, and, as they won. 

Gaining the refuge of the furious deep, 

The immortal cheers that shook the Trenton's deck, 

As Death might plead with Nature for the brave? 

Stands there no monument upon that strand? 

Then let remembrance build a beacon high, 

That long its warning message may remind 

How common danger stirs the brother heart. 



Why turn the leaf back to an earlier pager 

To-day, not moved by memory or fear. 

But by the vision of a nobler time, 

Millions cry toward thee in a passion of peace. 

We need thee, England, not in armed array 

To stand beside us in the empty quarrels 

That kings pursue, ere War itself expire 

Like an o'er-armored knight in desperate lunge 

Beneath the weight of helmet and of lance ; 

But now, in conflict with an inner foe 

Who shall in conquering either conquer both. 



HANDS ACROSS SEA 105 

For it is written in the book of fate : 

By no sword save her own falls Liberty. 

A wondrous century trembles at its dawn, 

Conflicting currents telling its approach ; 

And while men take new reckonings from the peaks, 

Reweigh the jewel and retaste the wine. 

Be ours to guard against the impious hands 

That, like rash children, tamper with that blade. 

Thou, too, hast seen the vision : shall it be 

Only a dream, caught in the web of night. 

Lost through the coarser meshes of the day? 

Or like the beauty of the prismic bow. 

Which the sun's ardor, that creates, consumes? 

Oh, may it be the thing we image it! — 

The beckoning spirit of our common race 

Floating before us in a fringe of light 

With Duty's brow. Love's eyes, the smile of Peace ; 

Benignant figure of compelling mien. 

Star-crowned, star-girdled, and o'erstrewn with stars, 

As though a constellation should descend 

To be fit courier to a glorious age. 



O THOU that keepest record of the brave, 
Something of us to thee is lost, more worth 
Than all the fabled wealth of sibyls' leaves. 



io6 HANDS ACROSS SEA 

Not with dull figures, but with heroes' deeds, 
Fill up those empty annals. Teach thy youth 
To know not North's but Byron's Washington ; 
To follow Hale's proud step as tearfully 
As we pale Andre's. And when next thy sons 
Stand in Manhattan gazing at the swirl 
Of eddying trade from Trinity's brown porch, 
Astonished, with the praise that half defames. 
At the material greatness of the scene, — 
The roar, the fret, the Babel-towers of trade, — 
Let one stretch forth a hand and touch the stone 
That covers Lawrence, saying, "To this height 
Our English blood has risen." And to know 
The sea still speaks of courage, let them learn 
^^'hat murmurs it of Craven in one bay. 
And what of Gushing shouts another shore. 
(Find but one star, how soon the sky is full! 
One hero summons hundreds to the field : 
So to the memory.) Let them muse on Shaw, 
Whose bones the deep did so begrudge the land 
It sent its boldest waves to bring them back 
Unto the blue domed Pantheon where they lie. 
The while his soul still leads in martial bronze ; 
Tell them of sweet-dirged Winthrop, whom to name 
Is to be braver, as one grows more pure 
Breathing the thought of lover or of saint ; 



HAXDS AC A' OSS SEA 107 

Grim Jackson, Covenanter of the South, 

And her well-christened Sidney, fallen soon ; 

Kearny and Lyon. Of such hearts as these 

Who would not boast were braggart of all else. 

Each fought for Right — and conquered with the Best. 

Such graves are all the ruins that we have — 

Our broken arch and battlement — to tell 

That ours, like thine, have come of Arthur's race. 

O England, wakened from thy lull of song, 
Thy scepter, sword, and spindle, fasces-like. 
Bound with fresh laurel as thy sign of strength. 
When shalt thou win us with a theme of ours, 
Reclaiming thus thine own, till men shall say : 
" That was the noblest conquest of her rule " ? 



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